and God said Let there be light
and we stood before the sun
shed the daylight from our selves
and donned dusk

God said Let there be light
and a moth emerged
from my molasses-black chrysalis

God said Let there be light
and we became
our blackest selves

God said Let there be light
and we became our own gods

God said Let there be light
and from the shade we watched
the sky shine her brightest

Let there be light
and day became
seemingly so

Let there be light
and night was never so black

Let there be light
and flesh became skin

and skin became colored

and the light was let in the house

and the cotton rose in the fields

and the master’s tools took shape

and an ocean kept us apart

and the indigo washed the coastline

and blue-black hands worked their fingers to the bone

and the rivers teemed with teeth

and barks ran through the woods

and the days grew darker

and the heavens rose beyond our reach

and God’s absence became apparent

and smoke poured over the mountain’s edge

and the fields filled with fire

and there was light

     Every seventh year you shall practice remission of debts. 
                                    (Deuteronomy 15:1)

How simple it ought to be, to practice compassion 
on someone gone, even love him, long as he’s not 
right there in front of me, for I turned to address him, 
as I do, and saw that no one’s lived in that spot 
for quite some time. O turner-away of prayer—
not much of a God, but he was never meant to be. 
For the seventh time I light him a candle; an entire 
evening and morning it burns; not a light to see 
by, more a reminder of light, a remainder, in a glass 
with a prayer on the label and a bar code from the store. 
How can he go on? He can’t. Then let him pass away; 
he gave what light he could. What more 
will I claim, what debt of grace he doesn’t owe? 
If I forgive him, he is free to go.

And when we are finished, I ask
            if she thinks us grotesque,
two plain monsters basking
            in our blood—our liquid plaque.

We celebrate the art of
            our unmaking. She spirals my body
into a single drop, ambrosia
            spoiled by the Gods. I copy

the signature of her sin-
            ged moan, grind it down
until it becomes my own dim
            map. Even the Gods fuck. Crown

themselves in gardens pastored
            by snakes. I am crying. Not out of shame
but out of tradition. To have mastered
            this want, only to carve for it a lock, a name

as queer as unholy. How queer it fits
            inside the mouth, how queer is my woman
and the sweat she makes of me, a sweet trick
            of her tongue. Don’t we deserve a hand-

made altar. Don’t we deserve a crowd
            of worshipers to carry our bed. And yes
please to the beads, the sacred
            wars, the body ornaments, the vain-eyed

statues pulsing deep with our flood.
            Yes to the orchestrated violence, a quiver
licked down my spine. May our love blood
            the skies like a storm of Gods high off terror.

O Zeus. O Oshun. O Ra. O Kali. O Me. O Her. O Gods—God? 
            Yes. Gods. Don’t act like you don’t know our names’ roar.
Whispered. Sweet and savage inside your temples.
            Preserved behind velvet doors.

I ask you this: 
Which way to go? 
I ask you this: 
Which sin to bear? 
Which crown to put 
Upon my hair? 
I do not know, 
Lord God, 
I do not know.